On Change
by onescape
Summary: Fuuko takes on fate, or something, as commented on by Mikagami and aided by warm weather. Still, nothing really happens. Comments are welcome.


Disclaimer: I still don't own.

Author's note: Oh, would you look at that. I actually took a break and wrote a sequel to a previous story, Unknown, _three years _after the fact. I blame rewatching the whole series on youtube. This takes place after the end of the manga and thus references the manga _and _the first story, although I suppose you could read it without knowledge of either.

I'll gladly take any sort of feedback.

* * *

**On Change**

by onescape

* * *

Great. So now he's hogging my place behind the fancy shrubbery.

I mean, I know something's changed... mellowed out about him since he finally carried out his revenge act. And that's good. Really good. It sort of makes me want to smile, to see him lying in the grass, shirtsleeves rolled up and sunlight in his face, dozing in spite of the hollering masses of students pouring into the yard.

But, really, I lowered myself to _scurrying _from class, did not even pick up my jacket just to make it through lunch break without Domon in tow, and he's taking up _my_ space.

"Move over, Mi-chan."

I can tell he's not asleep, but purposefully ignoring me.

"Mi-chan!" I turn the first syllable into a petulant whine like the brat I am.

Still, no response.

I kneel on the ground, put down the bento box and prepackaged chopsticks carefully a distance away and closing in from above dig my fingers into both of his sides enthusiastically. Unfortunately, I only get a single jab in before his hands shoot up to lock my own in the air none too gently. As I teeter above him in an attempt to regain my balance, this sort of brings back memories of a year ago, but I'm not one to hold a grudge for long. Besides, if I had done this a year ago, he probably would have broken those fingers. I think.

"Stop it. I'm not in the mood." His voice sounds scratchy and unused.

"Move over then," I order. "Quickly, you lunk." I squat down so my head's not visible above the hedgerow.

Without comment, Mikagami rolls over turning his back on me and revealing a crumpled jacket underneath. Mi-chan. Crumpled jacket. Does. Not. Compute.

He breaks me out of my reverie.

"Sit." He indicates the jacket, in-side up. I continue to stare. "That skirt," he says in a tone normally used with slow children, "you'd be sitting practically on the ground."

Right. With a look at my bare knees I plop down on my half of the garment cross-legged style, my back to his, then check if my undies don't show before digging into rice balls and fried octopus.

Twisting around I hover a piece near his mouth. "Want some? Ganko made it."

My hand is rudely batted away. "No."

I eat in silence for a while. The day feels lazy and humid; the early spring sun beats down on the empty volleyball court, whereas the racetrack is full of sweaty girls that pant and moan miserably every step of the way. A breeze combs through the trees and makes me shiver - it's an unusually warm day, but the end of March none-the-less.

"So what were you running from before? Your conscience?"

Goddamn smartass. It takes a few moments to hack up the rice that went down my windpipe by accident.

I know I'm a hypocrite. I hate it. I just... can't seem to stop myself, the smiles and the terror of the day they'll find out. No longer hungry, I shove the lunchbox away and flop onto my back. The lid clatters loudly. I feel the moisture from the ground seep into my collar, the sleeve of my shirt, flowers imprinted into the skin of my thighs. A chopstick flung like a kunai at the nearest tree results in merely shaving off a few tightly wound sakura buds, which is not especially cathartic.

I should be happy. We defeated the old man Kouran. We were not chopped into pieces, set on fire, eaten alive, nothing. In the long run we did not lose _anyone_ or_ anything, _not really_ - _and that is a miracle in itself - and now we get to live our stupid, blissful teen lives like nothing ever happened.

My best friend's in love with me. I'm one lucky girl. Almost as lucky as Yanagi. Except for those moments when Mikagami _looks_ at me and I just feel like I'll curl up and bawl. Like now.

"You know, you were right."

"About ninjaboy? I know."

I can barely bring myself to punch him in the shoulder. This hurts. "Shut up! Don't sound so smug about it."

We lie side by side, his forearm slung over his eyes, our shoulders touching. For the first time I realize it's sort of crowded. He doesn't seem to mind.

"You have no idea," I say, "It felt like - fate, or something."

A strange sound to my right shatters my dramatic moment. I turn my head slowly. "Did you just _snort_?"

"Right," he says, deadpan. "I have no idea." One of his girly eyebrows is arched and mocking me fiercely.

Okay, I get it already.

He surprises me again: "And?"

"And," the words come grating. When I close my eyes, it's red and warm inside, like a wound, "this...thing, with Domon. It feels like fate all over again. They even tell me so." _It was meant to be, Fuuko-chan. Everybody could see that._ Inevitable.

I raise myself on an elbow as if to make a point. "They're my friends. They should know, right?"

"No way out, huh?"

With a sullen sigh, I collapse back on the ground.

"Listen up, Fuuko." His tone says clearly_ I can't believe I have to explain this to you._ "You're seventeen. You have your whole life to figure things out. Stop wallowing."

"Was that supposed to be consoling or what?" I give an unconvincing laugh. "'Cause in that case you're re-eally the one to talk."

Reaching out blindly he claps my mouth shut with his other hand.

"_Think_, then speak."

Oh god, he's right. This whole romance thing has turned me into an angsty drama queen.

His palm disappears just as quickly, leaving behind a taste of salt. I should rightfully be grossed out. (I'm not.)

"Change _is_ possible, it just takes time." A pause. "_I_ am getting over it." There's a note of self-reproach in there. Who would've thought? "I know because I can feel it happening. One day it'll be gone, completely, and then I'll be free."

It takes a while for me to process the general weirdness of the situation, mainly because it's Mi-chan and he's actually _sharing_. I inspect what can be seen of his face - nope, it's the same disaffected mug I've been meeting for two years now. Yet I don't think I've ever seen him so calm and, well, not callous, as he's been lately.

Free.

"To do what?"

For a second there I get the crawly feeling that he is focused_ right at me,_ although I can't even see his eyes.

"Anything."

I mull all of this over.

"But I don't want to hurt Domon," I mumble finally.

He shrugs; in his position the motion turns into a flexing of his arms.

"You can't help it. You're not a good liar, you know."

For the first time ever, his assholish, matter-of-fact manner actually helps, and the swelling of my eyes recedes. Flipping over, I invade his space, casting a small round shadow over his face. Surprised - I can tell - he shifts to reveal drowsy eyes, long lashes stuck together with sleep, the high of his cheekbones flushed by midday heat.

"What?"

A grin splits my face and it feels good. It feels like _me_.

"Thanks, Mi-chan."

His expression blank and discoloured, as if he had been lying out in the sun for too long, he watches me for a long moment. His breathing is slow and deep. Strands of his hair gleam in the sunlight, caught on fresh stalks of grass and last year's leaves that will be a bitch to shake out later. Children's voices carry in from the schoolyard.

"You better not get used to it."

I realize _he can see down my shirt. _

In relation to Mi-chan it's sort of a shocking thought.

While he certainly could, he does not peek (not as far as I notice), looking me straight in the eye with this funny little smirk instead. Anyone else, in any other situation I would have slapped silly, but this feels... different. Non-sleazy.

I wonder if it's that difference that makes me lean on one arm instead and pick a twig from his hair leisurely, slowly, twirling it in the air. The impending sunburn and the end of the term certainly must have something to do with it, as well.

The fingers of his visible hand give a nervous twitch.

"Too late," I state cheerfully, looking down at him. "Wanna come blossom watching with us next week?"

"I won't be here next week."

He's leaving for Tokyo.

"So soon?"

Releasing an exasperated breath, a warm gust of air that drifts across my open neckline, he grabs my shoulders as he sits up and pushes me out of his way.

Without giving myself time to think I scramble up as well to get a hold of his wrist.

"Let's do a dress rehearsal, then."

"Now?"

"Now."

He freezes. Gazing past me at the students ambling back into the building, even with his hair sticking out like that he really is very pretty. Then the corner of his mouth tugs up in a semblance of a smile a I know I've won. I lean into him playfully, like a smitten girlfriend. He bears with me. We watch the sun filter through the still-bare branches for the rest of the afternoon.


End file.
